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User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 44
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 06/11/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter 44 7 July 1996 Years of being a head of house had given Minerva plenty of practice at forcing herself to full consciousness at the slightest noise, so the knocking that had awakened her didn’t startle her until she remembered that it was summer, and the students wouldn’t return for weeks yet. Worry enveloped her as she pulled on her dressing gown and hurried to the door. Don’t let it be about Alastor. Severus stood outside her quarters swathed in his usual black frock coat. Sweat formed beads on his forehead despite the Highland chill that always permeated the castle even on summer nights. “I need your help. The headmaster is unwell,” he said. He volunteered no more information and Minerva asked no questions as they moved through the deserted corridors as fast as she could manage with the walking stick and rode the spiral staircase to the heaadmaster’s office. When she stepped into the room, she stifled a cry. Albus sat slumped over his desk, his breathing shallow and rapid. Empty phials littered the desk around him. Albus’s right hand was a charred ruin. Wisps of thin, grey smoke snaked through the air above it. She approached him and forced herself to look closely at the hand. Something undulated just beneath the blackened skin. She swallowed back her rising gorge. As she watched, a dark tendril prodded its sickening way a few millimetres into the healthy tissue above his wrist. It seemed to quiver, held in abeyance by some opposing force within Albus’s magic. When she bent closer, she could hear a subtle hiss underlaid by a malign susurration. She caught a whiff of sulphur and flinched back. “Albus.” He moaned in response. “It’s Minerva. I’m here.” She put a tentative hand on his shoulder. He lifted his head enough to look at her. His eyes focussed on something far beyond her, then closed again. “So sorry,” he croaked. “Foolish …” His body convulsed, and Minerva looked, wide-eyed, at Severus, who strode over, knelt beside Albus, and brought a phial of brownish-green potion to Albus’s mouth. “Hold his nose.” She did so, and when Albus opened his mouth to gasp for breath, Severus poured the potion in and held his jaw shut. Rivulets of viscous liquid oozed from the side of his trembling lips. “Swallow it, it’s to help you,” Minerva said, stroking his cheek with her fingertips. He did at last, and a few moments later, the terrible shaking stopped. She was alarmed when he let out a loud breath and went still. “Severus—” “It’s all right. The potion is relaxing his muscles.” Eyes still closed, Dumbledore mumbled, “Thank you, my boy, thank you. Much better.” Minerva dabbed at the corners of Albus’s mouth with a tartan handkerchief. Once she was certain he was resting comfortably, she drew Severus away. “What happened?” she asked. “Some sort of curse. A very Dark spell. There was a ring—” “Severus!” Albus called. The strength of his voice was both startling and reassuring. “Headmaster?” Severus said. Albus sighed deeply. “Severus, you have been most helpful, but it is Minerva’s assistance I need now.” “What can I do?” Minerva asked. “I need you to Transfigure this … rather unattractive item,” Dumbledore said, nodding at his sickening right hand, “into something more presentable.” “You want me to Transfigure your hand?” “Yes. I find myself a bit hampered at the moment, magically speaking.” “But Transfiguring a discrete body part is almost impossible.” “Which is why I trust only you to do it.” Her mouth opened, then closed again, her tongue seemingly unable to form words. He was asking her to perform incredibly complex magic on his hand, his wand hand. Griselda’s long-ago warning echoed in Minerva’s mind: “You can lose the use of the organ for good. I knew a wizard lost his John Thomas trying to transfigure it into— well, just don’t try it, is what I’m telling you, Minerva McGon— Macnair.” The memory of Griselda and her sturdy forthrightness helped Minerva calm herself enough to think. “Even if I do manage it, we don’t know what kind of effect it will have on the hand,” she said. “I don’t think you can do much damage at this point,” Albus said with a sad smile. “But the curse …” “It will not affect the curse. Severus has already mitigated its effects. But the hand is beyond his help.” “Then why risk it?” “Because no one must know that it is more than a cosmetic injury. No one must know that I am … less able than I was.” She looked at Severus. An emotion she couldn’t quite place slipped across his features, but it was gone again in an instant. What are they playing at? She looked from Albus to Severus, waiting for either of them to tell her something —anything—useful, but the only sound in the room was Albus’s still-ragged breathing. It was tempting to refuse to try the transfiguration unless they gave her more information about exactly what had happened when the hand was cursed, but Albus was not wrong that it could have serious consequences for the war if the severity of his injury was generally known. She checked her emotional barometer to see how she felt, and settled on weary. She hadn’t the energy to do battle against these two wizards, to one of whom she was bound by love and shared experience, the other by chains of pity and regret. She would do as Albus asked and think about it later. She moved back to Albus and inspected the hand carefully, asking him to turn it over several times. “May I touch it?” It was Severus who answered. “Yes, but it may hurt him.” “Go ahead,” Albus said. “I’ll tell you to stop if I can’t bear it.” She touched back of the hand very gently. When Albus didn’t react, she ran her fingers gingerly over the blackened skin. Albus grunted, and she pulled back immediately. “I’m sorry.” “Not to worry, my dear. I’m fine. It’s just a bit tender. Do whatever you feel you need to.” “No, that’s enough. Severus, what do you think? Is it safe for me to try the transfiguration?” “Safe is a relative term in magic,” Severus answered. “I don’t believe it will change the outcome, whether or not the spell works as you intend.” He looked at her intently, not blinking. A chill came over her, and she had to grasp the side of the desk. Albus is dying. That’s what Albus wasn’t telling her, it was why she’d been summoned. It was to be her job to hide that fact from everyone as long as possible, lest the knowledge embolden their enemies. Minerva looked down at the stricken man. He had been her friend, for better and worse, for fifty years. She’d thought they were done with secrets, she and Albus, after all this time, yet he would not tell her this essential, impossible truth. That he was dying. “Minerva,” he said softly. “Do this for me. Please.” Her lips pressed together in a thin, grim line. “All right,” she said, and drew her wand. “Thank you.” She looked at the hand, trying to separate her knowledge of it from her knowledge of Albus Dumbledore. Think of a what a hand is, in its essence. She pointed her wand at the hand and murmured the first spell. Nothing seemed to happen, but that didn’t surprise her. The spell she’d cast was merely the first layer, meant to empty the hand of as much residual magic as possible in order to prepare it for the complex magic to come. She knew she’d have to reach deeper into her mind and magic to effect any visible change. She concentrated on the hand as she remembered it: the skin pale-beige with a tinge of healthy pink; the large blue veins running and twining like rivers and tributaries across the top; the bony knuckles, lightly dusted with white hairs. With a complicated series of wand movements, Minerva whispered three spells in quick succession. As she cast, she visualised the bones, muscles, and tendons under the damaged skin, contracting and releasing them in her mind as her lips formed the Latin of the incantations that would, she hoped, fix the hand in her mind and magic as the anatomical tool it had been before the curse had changed it into something Dark. The hand rippled and shimmered and become momentarily transparent, then more solid. Satisfied that she’d addressed its objective handness, she now had to move on to the more difficult piece of it, the part that was ineffably Albus’s hand. There were no words for this, Latin or otherwise, so she thought of her dear friend, and all the different ways she’d witnessed his hand wielding and expressing Albus’s unique magic: the long, expressive fingers steepling and nesting under his chin as he listened to a student or faculty member presenting an idea or a plea; the delicate way he held his wand between his thumb and first two fingers, almost as one would hold a quill, when he cast; his palm; resting comfortingly on Malcolm’s shoulder as he reassured the boy that he would learn to control his invisibility. Nothing was happening. She needed to make a deeper connection with her understanding of Albus’s hand. She moved her mind methodically back in time until she could conjure up her memories of his hand, filled with the tenderness of a complex, ambivalent sort of love, moving over her body long ago, the night they’d made Malcolm. Albus’s palm, moving over her breast; his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of her thigh; fingertips touching her between her legs, stirring her to a pleasure she’d never imagined; the odd sensation of his finger entering her, feeling her where no one ever had … a part of Albus Dumbledore, her Albus Dumbledore, who wanted so badly to give, to take in return, to share himself, but held back out of fear, shame and terrible, ruinous guilt … A mixture of love, pity, anger, and gratitude welled up in her. She cast again. Albus moaned, then screamed. The rippling of the skin increased. Minerva could hear it more clearly now, and it made the hair on the back of her neck rise. Then the rippling and hissing abruptly ceased. A puff of deep grey smoke rose from the hand, and the sulphurous odour increased. Severus hurried to Albus’s side. “Headmaster?” Minerva held her breath, perspiration trickling down her back and between her breasts, while Albus panted. “Thank you, my dear,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Sorry to have alarmed you. It was just a touch uncomfortable.” He held up the hand and turned it this way and that. “Much better.” It didn’t appear “much better” to Minerva. The skin remained charred-looking and the fingers stiff and skeletal. But when she mustered the courage to look at it more closely, she found that the awful rippling, hissing, and whispering were gone, and there was no more odour. A leaden sort of exhaustion filled her. Her bad hip felt as if it were made of ground glass, and she collapsed into one of the poufy chairs near the desk. “I’m sorry, Albus.” “No, no, it’s an excellent transfiguration. I didn’t expect the hand to look as it did before. The important thing is that the curse no longer appears active. No one else could have done it. Thank you, Minerva.” His eyes met hers and slowly crinkled into a smile, which she couldn’t help returning. She was surprised to find how much his praise still meant to her. “But the hand is still obviously damaged,” said Severus. “True,” Albus said. “But it now looks like a burn from a strong, but ordinary, curse. And, if I may say so, I am almost as adept with a wand in my other hand, so we will be able to explain that it was a serious accident but that the hand will heal in time.” He looked sombrely at each of them. “Minerva, Severus, I must ask you to say nothing of this incident. To anyone.” She said, “But surely the Order has to—” “To anyone,” he repeated. His demeanour softened, and he stood on shaky legs. He came over to her and put his good hand on one of hers, saying softly, “In the name of our long friendship, I must ask you to do this for me. Tell no one.” Minerva felt as if there were invisible strings drawing them together, her, Albus, and Severus, a sepia-toned trio of damaged people, in a tangled game for which only one of them knew the rules. A memory came to her of Harry Potter’s first year at Hogwarts, when Albus had insisted on the heads placing those absurd protections around the Philosopher’s Stone. Minerva had objected to the entire plan, of course. Using the Stone to lure Voldemort out of hiding was one thing, but allowing Harry Potter to place himself in harm’s way—to use the boy as bait—was something else altogether. But Albus had been adamant that Harry be allowed to search for the Stone. He’d wanted the teachers to set a series of challenges that would require Potter to work together with his friends to overcome them. “He must learn that he cannot succeed alone, that he must trust in his friends,” Albus had told her. She wanted to remind him of that conversation now. “Albus—” “Thank you, my dear.” Albus smiled his beatific smile. “Severus, perhaps you could see me to my chambers?” Severus helped him up the staircase and through the door to his private quarters. Minerva followed, carefully and painfully, and waited in the sitting room for Severus while he helped the headmaster to his bed. They left the headmaster’s chambers together. Minerva leant heavily on her stick as they walked. Severus held out his arm for her, and she took it. A vague sort of lightening passed through her, and she had the impression he was using magic to help support her weight. They made their way slowly down the corridor. “When will he die?” Minerva asked quietly. Severus didn’t look at her or change his pace. “When the time comes.” They said nothing more, and walked on. ~oOo~ Alastor stole a few moments to look at the woman lying on the bed. The dark cloud of hair haloing her face emphasized its paleness. Lines he was certain hadn’t been there in previous months shot across her forehead. He smiled at the faint shimmer of saliva that made its way from the corner of her slightly parted lips to the white cotton pillowcase on which her head rested. Fierce love for her washed over him. He was still furious with Albus for letting that Umbridge bitch run roughshod over the school before he vanished Merlin-knew-where in the middle of term, letting Minerva take the brunt of it all. It had almost killed her. Anger re-possessed him as he watched the still-red fingertip of a scar peek and recede from above the neckline of her thin nightdress as her chest moved slowly up and down with each breath. Those bleedin’ eejits should have their wands planted firmly up their arses alongside their brains. Two days after the stunning, Alastor had ambushed Dawlish as he was coming out of the pub favoured by the posher Ministry set. Dawlish swore he hadn’t been one of the Aurors to cast a Stunning spell at Minerva, but after Alastor threatened him with a particularly nasty variation of the Instant Baldness Hex, he gave up the four mates who had. Each of them had received a surprise visit from an extremely irate ex-Auror, which may or may not have been a factor in two of them opting to ride a desk for the remainder of their careers in Magical Law Enforcement. A third spent an afternoon in St Mungo’s casualty department having the strong Sticking Charm that attached his wand hand to his testicles removed before leaving the Auror corps altogether. Amelia had given him holy hell for that—Do you think I can afford to lose any of my field Aurors at a time like this?—but Alastor had shot back: “And since when are yer field Aurors so scared of a civilian schoolteacher that they have to hit her with four fecking Stunners just to shut her up?” Amelia had looked chagrined, and Alastor, who had half expected to have his Order of Merlin, third-class, taken away and his pension revoked, heard no more about it. Now Amelia was dead. And the last words he’d spoken to her had been in anger. The thought of telling Minerva about Amelia’s murder nauseated him, but he had to do it. Scrimgeour couldn’t keep it out of the Prophet for too long, and she should hear it from Alastor before she read it with her morning cuppa. He sat on the side of the bed and caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Minerva.” She stirred. A little louder: “Minerva.” Her arm shot under her pillow for her wand as she sat up, but his hand on her shoulder stopped her. “It’s only me, love,” he said. “Alastor.” She sighed, relaxing her wand arm and flopping back against the pillow. “And who else would be lookin’ for you in your bedroom, I’d like to know?” She gave him a sleepy smile. “Only you, thank Merlin.” “You need to work on your reflexes, though,” he said. “If it had been someone else, they’d have had you before you could cast.” “Since you reinforced the wards to my rooms, I sincerely doubt anyone but you could get in here.” “Doesn’t matter. How can you even be sure it’s really me?” She leant up, put a hand behind his head, and kissed his mouth until he couldn’t help but kiss her back. “It’s you,” she said, releasing him. “Cheeky.” She yawned and stretched. “What time is it?” “About half-ten.” He wondered what had kept her up so late–she hadn’t had any recon or surveillance duties for the Order last night–but the thought vanished when she moved to get up. He put a hand on her arm as she reached for her cane. “I need to tell you something.” The lines on her forehead deepened. “Tell me.” “It’s bad.” The fear reflected in her features was an expression he’d seen on too man faces lately. Everyone he knew spent most of their days in a state of ambient panic. The disappearances and outright deaths hadn’t abated since the Ministry had finally twigged to Voldemort’s reappearance. On the contrary, the Death Eaters were becoming more brazen, as if they were taunting the Ministry–taunting the whole wizarding world. To make matters worse, over the past few years the younger Aurors had become a load of lackeys and political jockeys; recruits now saw the corps as a stepping-stone to higher office, always looking for a chance to add to their chips by sucking up to their so-called “superiors” rather than using any brains or initiative. Amelia was nearly at her wits’ end … Jaysus, Maria, ‘n Joseph. Amelia. He took a deep breath and fixed his good eye on Minerva. “Minerva. Love. Amelia Bones has been killed.” She blinked at him for a moment as if she hadn’t understood his words. “Oh. Oh, no.” It was a deflated sound, not at all what he’d expected. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut as he stroked her arm, waiting for the storm, but when she opened them, her eyes were dry. Her voice was soft but steady. “I was afraid you were going to tell me it was Malcolm.” He mentally kicked himself for ham-fisting it. He should have told her right off it wasn’t that. “Christ, I’m Sorry. I should have—” “It’s all right. It’s just that that’s where my mind seems to go these days. I hate to admit it, but I’m actually relieved.” She struck the mattress with the side of an impotent fist. “This bloody war …” Now the tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. He handed her a handkerchief, and she dabbed at them before they could fall. “Poor Amelia. What happened?” she asked. “They don’t know exactly. It’s early days in the investigation, but they think it was You-Know-Who himself.” “Merlin!” “Nobody else could’ve got through the Ministry’s protections and Kingsley’s wards. He blames himself, of course, poor sod.” “I’m sure it wasn’t his fault.” “Yeah, I’ve told him. He’s even better at wards than I am, but nobody can protect against everything. We know that the Dark Lord has developed new offensive spells–the Azkaban breakout made that too clear. What worries me more is the intel angle. How did they find her in the safe house?” Amelia Bones and other important Ministry leaders had been provided with personal protections—often supplemented with Order of the Phoenix surveillance—and those who had been particularly involved with anti-Death Eater activities had been moved from their homes and flats to safe houses around London. Alastor, via Kingsley and Amelia, had pushed for Fidelius Charms to safeguard the locations, but newly elected Minister Rufus Scrimgeour had banjaxed the idea, insisting he trusted his top-level staff to keep things secret without the complexities of Secret Keepers and blood charms. A good Auror, Rufus, but too fond of control to be an effective leader, Alastor thought. It should have been Amelia in the Minister’s seat and Rufus in the safe house. Not that he wished his old training-mate dead in her place, although she wouldn’t be dead if Rufus had just listened … Renewed fury bubbled up in Alastor again, but he banked it. There was too much to be angry about, and there were more important things right now. “Was it the spy in the Ministry?” Minerva asked, reading his thoughts. “Possibly.” “Any progress on finding out who it is?” “Yaxley’s still the prime suspect, but his security clearance doesn’t give him access to safe-house locations.” “Who else, then?” Alastor hesitated before speaking. “Someone in the Order.” Her breath hitched audibly. “You think there’s a spy in the Order itself?” “I think we have to consider it a possibility. It happened last time.” He hated to bring it up. He knew that the idea that Sirius Black, one of her students, had been a turncoat had tormented her during the years after the end of the first war. The discovery that the traitor had been Peter Pettigrew rather than Black was hardly any better. It wasn’t something he enjoyed reminding her about, but he needed her keen mind working on the problem now that it had graduated from Alastor-paranoia to an almost-certainty. “Mundungus?” she said, almost hopefully. “No. He never did any protection detail. Dumbledore didn’t trust him not to talk if he got in a bad spot.” “Who else knew the where the safe houses were?” “Besides me? Kingsley, Arthur, and Tonks.” “No. I can’t believe it was any of them,” she said. “Me neither. Dumbledore knows the locations, of course,” he said. There was a pause, and then he dived in. “Did he tell Snape, d’you think?” he asked Minerva shook her head. “It wasn’t Severus.” Alastor shifted on the bed. “He was a Death Eater, Minerva. No one really leaves them. Not unless You-Know-Who lets them.” “No. He’s on our side.” Alastor sighed. They’d had this argument before. He thought she was naïve about Snape, and she thought Alastor was paranoid. He acknowledged that there might be some truth to both positions. Given what had happened to Amelia, Alastor had hoped Minerva would come to see things his way. She was best positioned to keep an eye on Snape. But could tell by the way she was rubbing her temples that pushing her on the issue wouldn’t help at the moment. “Anyway, we’ll need to discuss it with Dumbledore,” he said. “Oh, gods. Albus …” she whispered. “What about him?” There was a pause, and he waited while she turned something over in her mind. “He’s dying,” she said. The air seemed thin, suddenly, and Alastor had to take a deep breath before uttering his next words. “What? How?” “You’re not meant to know. No one is.” “Tell me anyway.” So she did. When she’d finished, he was quiet for a few moments, sifting everything around in his brain, trying to weave it into the fabric of his universe. Dumbledore dying. Of a curse. Impossible. “The curse,” he asked, “you’re certain it’s fatal?” “I’m not an expert, but it looked very bad.” Alastor rose from the bed, and Minerva followed. “That seals it. Snape is the spy. He’s got to be. Whatever he did to Dumbledore—” “He saved Albus’s life!” He was trying to keep his voice calm. “So he told you, but is it true? How do you know he didn’t take advantage of the situation to make it worse? That those potions weren’t poison?” “Albus said so. Besides, I was there. It was—” “I know you feel responsible for Snape in some way, but—” “No! It isn’t that. He has changed. After the first war, he came back different.” “A Nundu doesn’t change its spots.” She let out an exasperated puff of air and threw her free hand up in the air, thumping the ground with her cane. Her face was turning pink. Alarm bells sounded in his head. Her heart! Over the past year, they’d slowly found their way back to a place where they could enjoy arguing–careful never to let things spill over to a fight, but still challenging one another as they had in the past. It was one of the things he’d always enjoyed most in their relationship, and he thought she’d say the same. But since her injury, it had alarmed him when she got excited in any way, despite the clean bill of health the Healers had given her heart. He couldn’t help picturing it banging away in her chest the way his did, pumping with equal parts ire and arousal, when they sparred. Now the image was superimposed with one of her lying in the bed at Mungo’s. The voices in his head hissed at him. You’re killing her … killing her … He bit his tongue hard to shut them out. The coppery tang of blood in his mouth was perversely soothing, and the voices quieted to a barely perceptible murmur. “Look, love,” he said. “It’s been a long night for both of us. Why don’t we have a lie-down together and we can talk about it when we’re both more rested. I can barely think straight, I’m so tired.” Her glare softened and she nodded. “Good thought.” He stripped down to his skivvies and removed his wooden leg. They nestled together under the bedclothes, arms around one another, Minerva’s head resting comfortingly on his chest. She was restless, though, and shifted several times. “What’s the matter, love?” he asked. “Besides all the obvious?” Her hand found its way under his vest and stroked his chest for a moment before she answered. “Is it terrible of me to be relieved that it wasn’t Malcolm?” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Not at all. Doesn’t mean you don’t grieve for Amelia.” “I know I should be more upset, but with everything that’s happened … I just don’t feel I have the energy for more grief just now.” “I understand. I know you’ve been worried about Malcolm.” Alastor chuckled. “He’s made a pretty big splash in the European papers.” “He’s put himself in danger, for all the good it’s done us. He says the Ministre de Magique has managed to convince herself that it’s a British problem, that pure-blood mania doesn’t have a major French presence.” Minerva grimaced. “She doesn’t remember the Grindelwald years.” “Wasn’t even born yet.” “Exactly. And the Conseil are afraid any whiff of war will send the value of the Livre tumbling, just like our Galleon.” Despite her agitation, she yawned again. Alastor said, “Sleep now.” Within a few minutes, she was breathing heavily and steadily again. She’d reluctantly admitted to him that she still tired easily, which Madam Pomfrey had said would be the case for several more weeks, to Minerva’s disgust. She pushed herself too hard. He’d wanted to urge her to slow down, take things easy, but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t try to bully her into anything. He’d just be a shoulder to lean on, and it pleased him that she did so, more and more. She’d mellowed a bit over the years–as had he, head-voices notwithstanding–but she was still a woman who resented feeling backed into a corner. The more space he gave her, the more comfortable she became. Wish I’d figured that out years ago. He let his eyes flutter shut, but he couldn’t seem to drift off. His mind kept churning things around and around: Dumbledore was dying. He’d need to figure out what that meant, both strategically and personally. He kissed Minerva’s hair. It would be hard on her in lots of ways, no doubt. And once the autumn term started, he wouldn’t be here to provide support. They’d have only stolen moments, probably at Grimmauld Place, surrounded by Weasleys and sundry Order members. If only she’d marry him … but he let the old thought go. They’d make do. Once the war was over, they could see about a more permanent arrangement. His thoughts turned to Snape. Alastor knew why Minerva took up for Snape. Aside from Dumbledore’s apparent confidence in him, Minerva wanted to believe in Snape’s redemption. She felt guilty over failing to see the abuse her “Marauders” had heaped on the boy at school, and she enjoyed his company at the school, she’d said. Alastor didn’t get it, but then, he couldn’t figure how she’d come to love Alastor himself, so no accounting for taste, he supposed. But Snape made him nervous, even before the disaster of Amelia’s murder. True, he’d let Alastor use his lab to brew his own potions–an unheard-of precedent, according to Minerva–after his trunk ordeal, but Snape had lurked about. Spying, Alastor had figured, not that there was anything to be learned by watching an old cripple brew some Strengthening Solution and vitamin potions. Snape had made a couple of suggestions, through Minerva, for improving the potions, which Alastor had run by Malcolm before trying. They’d helped, but that didn’t mean Snape wasn’t the spy. He could’ve been trying to ingratiate himself to Alastor to get him to let down his guard. Not ruddy likely! He’d be keeping his eye —both eyes—on Severus Snape. ← Back to Chapter 43 On to Chapter 45 → Category:Blog posts Category:Chapters of A Slant-Told Tale